


tell me (what I won't say)

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Needs To Use His Words, First Time, Future Fic, Knotting, M/M, Mates, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Oral Sex, POV Derek, Post-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Scent Kink, Scenting, Stiles is very patient, Werewolf Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 02:43:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13378431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Mates are rare, even in born wolves, and practically unheard of in those bitten. You know your great-grandparents were mates, something whispered about but never really discussed, when you were growing up.You thought it was beautiful and tragic and wanted it so badly you ached.





	tell me (what I won't say)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is just cuz I've never written mates before and I wanted to. It's possibly a little messy still, I wrote it in one day long rush.  
> Enjoy? <3

“Derek,” Stiles voice is close and knowing and husky with smoke and you close your eyes. 

“Tell me,” he coaxes. 

 

~*~

 

You knew.

 

~*~

 

Not at first, when his scent was young and innocent and clean and mixed up with McCalls, when you were a mess of fear and loss and guilt. 

You could smell it, the first hint of  _ something  _ but you pushed it aside and focused on  _ beta _ and  _ brother  _ and  _ pack _ . 

 

~*~

 

“Special, special. I can taste it, the special boy. You silly wolf, you left him all unclaimed and--” 

“Oh shut _ up,”  _ Stiles snarled, throwing a spell with a hot crack of ozone and burnt hair, and the hag gave a sharp scream that cut off too soon, and his eyes are narrowed and furious. His skin is still pale and red dusts along it, red you hate and you want to reach for him, want to explain but he snorts, disgust and fury clouding his scent and you let him turn away, let him walk away. 

 

~*~

 

It's after you Bite Erica, when she kisses you and you want to respond,  _ do  _ respond before something animal and instinctive makes you shove her away, this beautiful  _ alive  _ girl who reminds you painfully of Laura, who smirks at you like she knows a secret and you think she probably does. 

She smells of sex and leather and rain, and it doesn't smell  _ right _ so you push her away and you don't understand really, not even then. 

Or maybe you do, because Stiles smell faintly of her when you see him next and you take the unbearable rage you feel at that fact out of her skin when you train and her gleaming brown eyes, so similar to Stiles, mock you as she sprawls in front of you. 

 

~*~

 

You stand under the shower, the freestanding shower head pouring down on you. The bathroom is all Stiles, something he designed two summers back, when you told him you wanted to rebuild a house in the Preserve. Not the Hale House, but  _ your _ house, for the pack who had grown up around you. 

He'd grinned and snatched the blue prints from you and come back three days later, jittery with excitement and smelling of nerves and sweetness and coffee, and shown you a virtual pinboard of design ideas that left you reeling because you could  _ see  _ it, what you wanted, in your head. 

But Stiles showed you the pictures in your head. 

Now, in your bathroom that Stiles designed, in the house that Stiles helped build, you stand alone and wonder if he'll ever be here. 

 

~*~

 

It's the kanima--the pool--that finally makes you see what you’ve been ignoring. Stiles is shaking under your weight, his limbs trembling as he holds you up and fights the water, and his scent is tangled up with chlorine and the kanima, but there’s the sharp note of determination and the sweet familiar scent that is  _ him _ and something under it, faint and subtle, the hint of cedar and vanilla that you’ve never been able to identify before but that hits you hard now. 

And you  _ know. _

 

~*~

 

Mates are rare, even in born wolves, and practically unheard of in those bitten. You know your great-grandparents were mates, something whispered about but never really discussed, when you were growing up. 

They died within months of each other, and Laura told you at the funeral it’s because mates are for life and she didn’t want to go on without Gramps. 

You remembered the way they always seemed to move around each other, even when they weren’t speaking to each other, when they were doing other things that didn’t involve the other, when they were running through the woods. They always moved around each other, like a moon orbits a planet, like binary stars draw together, and you thought it was beautiful and tragic and you wanted it so badly you ached. 

 

~*~

 

“Everyone, out,” Stiles snaps and you allow yourself the smallest of sighs.  You listen as the pack files out of your house, as Scott pauses to talk to Stiles, voice too low for you to hear, and then the door groans shut and you’re alone, just you and Stiles, his heartbeat fast and familiar, his scent filling up the room. 

“Tell me,” he says, and it’s not a question, even though it should be. You grin, because it’s going to be a fight. 

It’s Stiles. Of course it’s going to be a fight. 

“Gonna need more to work with--” your words are cut of when he shoves into your space, the set of his body and rigid muscles all coiled violence, but his lips, oh gods, his lips are soft and gentle. 

 

~*~

 

You run. Because he’s a boy and he’s yours, you know he’s yours, but there are some thing you can’t have and Stiles Stilinski is one of them. 

So you run. Away from him, as far and as fast as you can, as often as you can. After the Alpha Pack and your failed attempt as an alpha, after Stiles is possessed, after the dying and evolving and every time you ran, he was there, pulling you back, even when all he was doing was quietly waiting. 

 

~*~

 

The kiss is soft, impossibly soft, and his hands are gentle as they cradle your face, his thumbs rubbing over your jaw as he tilts your head and licks into your mouth, and you whine into it, because he tastes like blood and vanilla and cedar and  _ yours.  _

“Stiles,” you whisper as he pulls away, moves to mouth at your jawline, nipping your earlobe, soothing it with the swipe of his tongue. 

“Tell me, Derek,” he murmurs. 

You want to. You want to tell him everything you haven’t over the years, tell him everything that you’ve pushed away. 

You kiss him instead and he sighs into it, but let’s you redirect him.

 

~*~

 

You find out, after--after he pulls you back to Beacon HIlls for the final time, for Scott’s war with Monroe--that he was taken by the hunt. You find out that they forgot him. Everyone forgot him. 

It terrifies you because you almost lost him, and confuses you because for the past two years, you’ve woken up, every morning, and thought of him. 

He’s the last thing you think of before you sleep and the constant companion in your thoughts throughout the day. 

You never forgot him, and you know that you should have and it confuses you and doesn’t. 

Because you know and you think that even the WIld Hunt can’t touch the bond between mates. 

 

~*~

 

It’s slow. 

Stiles is slow, patient, stripping you of your clothes, bloody and smelling faintly of the witch’s herbs, kissing you deep and languorous as he does, letting his hands wander, mapping your skin. 

You stand still except for your hands on his hips, flexing and relaxing with every touch, fighting the urge to lean in and demand more, to arch into his light caress. 

You want everything. 

And he gives it, skims his hands over you, cataloging every sigh and moan, what makes you twitch and arch into him, pressing that advantage, until you’re panting and writhing, riding the thigh he presses between your legs, grinding against him as he murmurs, “Yeah, Derek, give it to me. Just like that.”

He sounds so pleased with himself, with you, as you spill against his thigh, that it makes something quiet and aching in you settle. 

He tugs you from the wall and you stumble on come clumsy legs as he leads you to bed. 

 

~*~

 

After Monroe, after the headlong rush across the country at Stiles’ side and the quiet reminder of how much Stiles meant to you--you struggle to step away. To tuck him back into the  _ not yours _ box you’d so carefully placed him. 

Because he was different now, older and more settled, carrying heavier shadows and too much knowledge in his tired, beautiful eyes. 

“Are you staying?” he asks and you nod because you’re tired too. 

You are so tired of running from the only place you want to be. 

 

~*~

 

“Tell me,” he says again, when you are curled around him in your big bed, the only place in this house he helped you build that he hasn’t been. 

You’re almost dizzy with the sheer pleasure of having him here, your wolf whimpering in pleasure that he’s  _ here, _ in your bed, in your den, where he is safe and belongs and you want to keep him always. 

He rolls you until you’re on your back, your hands pinned by his grip, a hold you could break if you wanted but you  _ don’t _ want to, so you arch against him but don’t fight him and he smiles as he kisses you, hard and deep and dirty and whispers again, “Tell me, Derek.” 

 

~*~

 

You get used to it, sharing space with him, being in a pack with him. 

You hate how easy it is, to fall into that. With the hostility of your first few years stripped away and the rough edges of your temper honed down by a very long healing process, it’s easy to be  _ friends _ with Stiles. 

He slips into your life, filling up the pack house with noise and research and half drank cups of coffee abandoned with books and scraps of notes. 

He fills your kitchen with food and his laughter and your evenings with movies you don’t care about and quiet hours reading and you get used to it. 

You remind yourself, sometimes, when he wakes up on your couch after a movie marathon that never quite ends, that as much as he smells like  _ yours _ he isn’t, that he can’t be, that he doesn’t want you. 

Still. 

“Are you happy here?” he asks, one summer night. The pack is sprawled around your backyard, the Sheriff dozing in the hammock near the garden, and you remember evenings howling at the moon and playing hunt and catch in the woods with your cousins and sisters, while your parents smoked wolfsbane laced joints on the porch and you realize the memory doesn’t feel like a knife to the gut. 

“Yeah,” you answer honestly, and he smiles at you, wide and bright, as bright as the stars shining overhead, and his mouth gleams wet from beer and you want to kiss him and claim him and keep him, always. 

“I’m happier than I’ve ever been,” you tell him. “Happier than I thought I could be.” 

 

~*~

 

He slides down your body, his thumbs flicking over your nipples until you hiss and arch and his teeth catch on one, as his fingers tangle in your chest hair and tug and you feel your dick twitch, already, again. 

“Tell me,” he demands, his voice dark and demanding and you groan. 

He mouths at your cock, draws in the head, dips his tongue into your foreskin and you snarl and fuck up into his mouth. 

He lets you. Grips your cock and jacks you as you fuck his pretty pink mouth, lips stretched wide and peering at you from under his lashes. You groan when your cock hits the back of his throat, and he pauses, and then takes you  _ deeper,  _ until you’re sliding down his throat every time you thrust into that silky wet heat, and he’s moaning. 

It takes you a long time to realize that he’s thrusting against your leg, his cock sliding against your hair leg, wet and almost painfully hard, these involuntary little hitches and thrusts that you want to feel, when he’s fucking you. 

You tug on his hair, pull him off your cock with wet pop that makes your balls twitch and tighten. He makes a petulant noise, his grabby hands as you pull him up your body ridiculous and adorable. 

“Derek,” he sighs, his voice rough and fucked out as you kiss him, “Derek,  _ please,  _ tell me.” 

 

~*~

 

You’re both drunk. Later you’ll tell yourself that’s why you tell him. Because he brought you a bottle of Moonshine and produced a joint that he grins and tells you is laced with wolfsbane, and you can’t remember the last time you trusted someone enough to get fucked up with them, so you nod and wander into the kitchen to bake some cookies because you like cookies when you’re high and Stiles likes cookies all the time. He orders Thai and props himself on the counter, close enough you can feel the heat of him, and steals cookie dough as he pours four shots. 

You smirk as you take your three and he wheezes after his, and you toss the first pan of cookies in the oven before taking the joint and his wrist and dragging him to the sun porch. 

It’s a room that smells like you and him, somewhere the rest of the pack rarely comes because his research sprawls over the flat surfaces and your paintings smell sharp and acrylic as they dry. 

You’d care about that, except that this little sunlit den is yours and his, and you love that too much to give up. 

He sits close to you and lights the joint, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke for a long moment before he exhales a blue tinged, sweet breath. His smile is looser when he offers you the joint and you hesitate. 

“I haven’t--it’s been a long time since I smoked,” you say, thinking back to the nights in New York, when Laura leaned over you and blew smoke in your mouth, and smiled when you kissed the little stray omega you dragged home from the Park. She left before you fucked him, and he tasted like weed and your sister’s perfume. 

You shake the memory to find Stiles watching you, his eyes drowsy and warm and he shrugs, swings himself into your lap and hits the joint again. 

Your heart is beating heavy and hard in your chest as he tilts your head up and his lips drift close, close, open to blow that sweet smoke into your waiting mouth. Your hands are on his hips and he pulls back to bite his lip and gauge your reaction. 

His voice is husky from smoke when he murmurs, “Again?” 

You nod and arch up for the shotgun the second time and very determinedly do not think about him pressing down against you, his cock half hard where it’s pushing against yours. 

You’re eating the Thai, the cookies almost gone and halfway through the bottle of Moonshine, when he peers at you, eyes wide and smile loose, stupid with weed and wolfsbane and whiskey. 

“Are mates a thing? Or is that just a ‘wolf myth.” 

“They’re real. My great grandparents were mates.” You nibble at a baby corn and give a dreamy smile. “I always wanted one.” 

Stiles blinks slowly up at you and you add on, a little helplessly, “They’re rare.” 

“So you don’t have one?” Stiles asks, sad. 

You should tell him no. You should tell him you don’t. But you’re sitting in the house he helped you build, and the air is full of chocolate and weed and the low spicy note of arousal he probably doesn’t realize he’s putting out, and you shake your head, helpless under his gaze to do anything but tell him the truth. 

“I do. I have one.” 

 

~*~

 

He’s staring up at you from his sprawl on the pillows, his lips bitten raw, his breathing heavy and his chest flushed. You stare at him as he strokes his cock, and his mouth falls open as you bite at his shoulder, sucking a bruise there. 

“Derek,” he begs, his voice cracked and ruined and you get it suddenly. 

You thought you stopped running years ago, but you’ve been running still, running from him even as he fit himself into your life, shaped it around you, slide into his role as your mate without ever being told, because you never  _ needed  _ to tell him. 

“Tell me,” he demands, and there are tears in his big amber eyes and you groan as you surge up, cover him with your body, kiss him breathless and he shudders and arches and you breath it into his open, panting mouth. 

“You, Stiles. It’s  _ you _ . You’re my mate.” 

He screams as he comes, arching and spilling wet heat between you. 

 

~*~

 

“It’s dangerous.” 

“It’s my choice,” you say and Peter scoffs. 

Stiles pushes inside, early for the pack meeting as usual, and you glare at your uncle as he tugs the earbuds from his ears and gives the older wolf a skeptical glare. “Why are you here?” 

“I often ask myself the same thing, when I’m surrounded by oblivious idiots.” Peter says, and slaps an article down on the table. “There’s a witch headed to Beacon Hills. She’s not very pleasant, but she’s not killing people. Stay out of her way--she likes to fuck with open bonds.” 

Stiles’ eyes narrow at that and you snarl, low and vicious. Peter rolls his eyes but beats a quick retreat and when Stiles turns his furious gaze on you, you shake your head. “Don’t. Don’t--we’re not talking about this.” 

He catches your arm as you push past him and snaps, “Dammit, Derek, just  _ tell me. _ ” 

You don’t. You rip yourself free and burst into a sprint, and run until the sun goes down and the waning moon hangs overhead. 

 

~*~

 

He’s moaning, thrusting down on the two fingers you’ve got pushed inside him, and even though he’s come--you held him through it, let him shake and tremble in your arms and after, when he flopped boneless in your bed, you slid down his body and licked him clean, rubbed against his pale skin until it blossomed red from your stubble and his spent cock stirred in interest near your lips, until you turned and sucked him into your mouth, chasing the taste of him, the scent of him, just holding him there, almost purring with pleasure as he moaned and gripped your hair and hardened and whispered your name. 

He asked for this. Begged for it, while you licked over his cock, once you tired of simply letting the heavy weight of it rest on your tongue, and you still aren’t sure how this happened, only know that he’s writhing across your bed, and  _ your fingers  _ are pressing against his the sweet secret heat of him, spreading him open for you. 

He rocks down against your fingers and whimpers and you kiss him, a sloppy press of lips and tongues more than anything, as you add a third finger, brush against that sweet spot in him that makes his hands scramble at your shoulders, makes his body bow up off the bed. 

“Derek, please,” he sobs and you slide your fingers free, not sure it’s enough prep but too anxious to appease him, to be in him, to wait any longer. 

Stiles whines when you aren’t in him, reaching for you with clumsy hands as you slick your dick and then gasps as you fall over him, settle between his thighs and line yourself up. 

 

~*~

 

It’s there. 

You know it’s there, the fledgling bond that sings between you and the loud, flailing boy, the bond that won’t snap in place and hold you to him until you fuck him open and knot him, until you fit your teeth to the pale column of his throat and bite him, claim him, as you fill him with your come. 

You know it’s there, and you think he suspects, but you hold yourself away from him and it’s--it’s there, but it’s not complete and you think it’s safer that way. 

 

~*~

 

“Oh.” Stiles says, his voice clear, startlingly clear, “Oh, god.” 

You understand. 

It’s not like you haven’t fucked before, even been with men, but this--this is different. His body seems to  _ welcome _ you, the tight clutch of his body like nothing you’ve ever felt, a fucking  _ revelation.  _

“Derek,” he says, and you nod, press your forehead into his neck because he sounds shaken, almost panicked. 

“I know, baby,” you murmur into his throat. “I know.” 

“It’s--” he shudders when you move pulling back in a slow drag of your dick and his words break on a high keen, one you want to hear the rest of your life. 

It’s impossibly good, and you don’t know if it’s because your mates, or because you’ve wanted this boy for more years than you want to think about. 

His nails dig into your back when you thrust hard and you snarl into his throat, something that makes his cock jerk between you and isn’t that interesting. You let your fangs drop, scrap them up the pale throat you’ve dreamt of and he fucking  _ moans _ , his whole body shuddering, his hole clamping down around you so hard it almost hurts, but he doesn’t come. Not yet. 

“One day,” you murmur, catching his earlobe with your fangs and licking the delicate curve, “I’m gonna fuck your pretty mouth and come all over your throat. Let every ‘wolf you see know who you belong.” 

“Yes,” he hisses, eyes going wide. They’re glowing, just a little, that telltale sign that his spark is starting to flare, and you twist your hips, pull him with you until he’s sprawled across your chest, riding you with these tiny hitching motions of his hips as you rock up into him. “Want them to know,” he mumbles into your throat, and you tip your head back, let him lick over the delicate skin, bite at it, and you feel your knot begin to swell when he fits his teeth over your Adam’s apple, holds you pound pulse in his teeth and doesn’t bite down. 

“Want them to know I’m yours,” he finishes, licking the indents of his teeth before he sits up and smirks down at me. “Gonna mate me, big guy?” 

Your nails dig into his hips, the barest hint of claws piercing his skin and he groans and fucks himself back on your dick, meeting every hard thrust with his own, taking you deeper as your knot begins to swell and he stares at you, his eyes wide and wild and clear, even filled with lust and hunger. 

“Give it to me,” he demands, bossy and demanding even here “Fucking do it, Derek, give me you knot.” 

You laugh and groan and pull him down on your dick. 

He comes as your knot pushes in and swells, his scream a choked off sweet thing that makes you drag him down to kiss him, to lick it from his open mouth, swallowing down his whimpers as you rock into him in tiny thrusts that press your knot deeper, into his prostate, rocking up against it as he shudders and shakes and the wet of his spunk smears sticky between you and he breathes against you. 

Bites your throat once more and presses the word there, against your skin. “Mine,” he says and you howl as you come, your grip on him tight and brutal as you fill him up, an endless orgasm that seems to intensify when he bares his throat for you and murmurs, “Derek. Come on, big guy. Do it. Make me yours.” 

You moan as you pull him closer, feel him tugging at where you are tied in him, and you lick his neck, find that sweet spot of scent and sweat and taste, and fit your teeth to him. 

You don’t ask if he’s sure. 

You don’t need to. You’ve been the only one who wasn’t sure. 

Stiles gives this sigh, when you bite him and blood slicks your tongue and teeth, this long, content thing that fills you up the way his scent does. 

 

~*~

 

His fingers touch the spot on your neck, where he bit you and you lean into him. Kiss his hair and reach for the joint he left in the ashtray. He follows you into the sun porch, and sprawls in your lap to trade lazy, smoke laced kisses and you clutch him to you, feel the warmth in your gut at the sight of your bite on his neck, the mark that claims him as yours, and you are filled with a familiar rush of love, so strong it’s almost dizzying, and you crane up to kiss him, hard and hot and a little bit desperate. 

Stiles’ eyes are laughing when you pull away, panting and he blows smoke in your face before he puts the joint down and presses his forehead to yours, and murmurs, “Tell me, baby.” 

You smile, and it’s easy, so easy to hold your mate close and let the words spill out, to give him this thing he has waited so long for. 

“I love you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me about writing and Hoechlin's eyes and Dylan's everything on Tumblr. areiton.tumblr.com  
> <3


End file.
